Happy is a Matter of Opportunity
by The Crimson Wing
Summary: When life is as screwed up as it is on the Sovereign, happiness is grabbed from opportunity to opportunity. Baird knows this just as well as anyone else. And then the holidays come and opportunity hits. MarcusBaird
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is a bit late, I know, I know, but life caught up and told me that I wasn't allowed to write. I still don't feel too well, so this was a pain, but my Gears pairing needs some love, so I went for it.

I haven't ever posted any of my gears writing, but poking around…I don't feel too bad about that. Hoping that this brings some holiday cheer to someone- because yes, it's still the holidays, it hasn't been the new year yet!

**Warning**: MarcusBaird, as in MaleMale of the not MarcusDom variety. You ship yours, I ship mine, we'll all be happy. Also, possible mild spoilers, not to mention the fact that I COULD NOT STAND how the books were written. Any errors are mine, and there is no need to point them out. Enjoy it for what it is. Also, I don't actually have a computer. Reviews will be loved upon unmercifully, but responses will be scattered. Know that I appreciate them, nonetheless!

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><p><em><span>Happy is a Matter of Opportunity<span>_

_Part One_

The Sovereign pitched like a toy boat on choppy waters, and it took everything in Baird's power not to upchuck the dinner he'd consumed only half an hour previous. With actual _protein_ no less, one of the many laying hens taken to block for the special holiday. Bland as it had tasted, his body craved the meat like no other and he was _not_ losing it. Cole would never let him live it down. Still, it was a hard fought battle, one that only worsened when the ship's generators caved to the storm's oppression, leaving him in the pitch darkness of his cabin.

"Great," he murmured, quietly at first, then a louder groan of, "PERFECT", just to let his hall mates know how he felt about their little _situation_. Not that any of them were around as of yet, seeing as the party was still in full swing, but he could damn well bitch if he wanted to. He was probably going to be the one to fix it _anyway_.

With the initial passing of his darkness induced claustrophobia, his nausea eased up somewhat. In the dark, the objects rolling on his work bench weren't visible, and thus worked far less towards inducing vomiting. The only light in the room came from the energy cells on his armor, which was currently shoved in the corner for repair. Later. When there was light and the world stopped spinning. In its own way it was soothing, and he allowed himself to relax in the gentle flow. It wouldn't last long, anyway.

The Christmas Party had been…well, pretty pointless, as he'd expected. He wouldn't go so far as to say boring, though. When they weren't in his personal space, he had to admit that the drunks were entertaining, in their own pathetic way. After three rounds of you-are-an-asshole with Sam, however, the entertainment value became outweighed by bitch value and he had escaped.

_"Damon Baird to generator repair. Baird to generator"_ echoed loud and sudden through the speakers and, despite the sudden break in silence, the blond couldn't say he was surprised. There hadn't been a single Christmas where he hadn't gotten screwed- and not in the awesome way, either- since he'd turned five and his parents had decided his career path for him.

The all call echoed yet again- just in case he hadn't heard it, one would assume, but he just _knew_ it was because their beloved Captain was a hard ass who assumed he was drunk like the rest of them- and Baird sat up, grumbling in the dark. "Yeah fuckin yeah. Heard you the first time. Off to save the fuckin day again." He swung off of his little bed ( careful to avoid smacking his head on the bunk above it ) and stretched, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass and for his legs to support him before he started forward in the dark towards his work bench, nabbing the large, rectangular flashlight there. The backup generators should have kicked in but, just like the rest of the ship that was held together largely by patch welds and duct tape, they were probably on the fritz. Another thing he'd look at in the daytime, because fuck this dark bullshit.

Without turning on the light he exited the hallway, relying for a moment on his keen sense of hearing while he checked his waist for the tool belt that had been there permanently for the last few months. Except in showers, of course, because he refused to look like he was in a bad porno. Immediately out of the room, however, a sound caught his attention- small, in the tossing of the waves, but definitely there. Within a heartbeat he had the light on, hand down to rip his wrench free from the belt, but at the same time there was an illumination and he was cursing aloud his own idiocy for being complacent, a massive hand was slamming him back against the wall with a vengeance. Baird cursed, a mixture of anger and fear, the wrench halfway out before his eyes adjusted and he found himself staring into the brilliantly illuminated, pissed off eyes of Delta Squad's leader.

"Baird," Marcus said, voice a low growl. His gaze flickered down to the makeshift weapon, which was inches from leaving a nasty break in his ribs, before he released his grip on the corporal and stepped back. "What the fuck are you doing skulking in the dark?"

"I could ask you the same thing, jackass," the blond responded testily. "Shouldn't you be up there with the communication's officer, taking advantage of the fact that there's _alcohol_ so you don't have to actually admit you _give a shit_?"

The look this got him was a mixture of disgust and irritation, which Baird would have analyzed further if the world weren't spinning and he didn't have someplace to be. "Came down here to see if you passed out in your own puke."

Green eyes rolled. "Oh yeah, real-"

His smartass comment was cut off as the ship decided it wasn't a good time for them to be standing and pitched violently. Baird staggered, his equilibrium still skewed, but before he could eat ship floor one big hand snagged hold of his bicep, the other planting firmly on the wall, and he found himself again staring into squinting luminous blues.

"Watch where you're pointing that fucking thing," Marcus muttered, ducking his head to the side, and Baird blamed his nausea for the little shudder that rolled down his spine. Because it was not the sergeant's breath trailing across his neck. Because that was disgusting because it was Fenix.

"Oh sorry," the blond responded, voice a high falsetto, "I'll try to keep my light out of your eyes the next time I almost _eat it_."

Marcus snorted, callous amusement to his voice, and glanced back to Baird as the light was shifted away. The corporal itched, suddenly, to plant the beam right back where it had been originally, because all at once this was too close. It didn't matter that they'd been this close before- patching wounds, catching each other from exploding helicopters, tossed together in casual brawls- this was different. It was dark, and stormy, and Christmas, and there was _no one around_. Baird was a genius. He knew _exactly_ why his stomach squirmed at the thought. He would just rather shove his hand in a moving lancer chain than admit that he was attracted to Marcus Fenix.

They hadn't been like that for long, but the moment felt like it stretched on forever, those few seconds stretching out like taffy. It didn't help when Baird looked up and found that some jackass ( who Anya would refer to as mischievous and Baird would refer to as a twat with no life ) had planted a sprig of mistletoe on the ceiling just before the stairwell. Which was where they were. His lips quirked wryly at the darkened ceiling and maybe Marcus saw the expression because, a moment later, he was looking up too.

"Well isn't this romantic," Baird drawled sweetly. He looked down, smirking. "Come on Fenix, you don't have to resort to _mistletoe_ to get…"

There was something of a hiccup in his logic when the sergeant looked at him, a delicate twitch to his lips. Like he was thinking of something that Baird was in complete denial about.

"Yeah, Baird?" Marcus asked, and the mocking in his tone rose a tide of hot anger in the blond. "Polyp got your tongue?"

He hated polyps. He hated being mocked. He hated the stupid sergeant, because why in the hell did he get the title when Baird was the one that did all of the goddamn work? He was a grunt. Even if he was a good leader, _Baird_ pulled his goddamn weight too.

It pissed him off the most that, rather than wanting to slug him, he wanted to kiss him. Which sort of made him want to slug him _more_, but it was still eclipsed by the sudden, twanging urge to see how Marcus would react. Probably hit him. Maybe that would be better because then he'd get it out of his fucking system, because he was sick of worrying like a goddamn puppy or some other bullshit term.

Marcus snorted softly, but Baird didn't comment on that because as he did, he leaned forward, the inches between them disappearing like lightning, and his phobia of people, his need to push them away, was momentarily short circuited by his need. Sexual misconduct was just fine, it was when he cared that was the problem, and it terrified him that he gave a shit about the man that was four inches, three inches, two inches, almost touching, away from him. But he needed this. Just once and he'd be good because he had an itch…

And maybe because he was tired of seeing Anya fucking mooning at Marcus, tired of their little quips, sick of seeing them interacting when there was no chemistry, absolutely driven up the goddamn _wall_ every time she could subtly touch him and not get the sideways look from Cole because Cole knew, Cole always knew, even if he played dumb. They were hovering, that bare breath apart, and anyone else would have thought it was Marcus being kind, giving him an out, but the blond knew better; he was controlling him, yet again, making Baird take that last step, pushing him subtly.

"You're an asshole, Fenix," Baird muttered, just because he had to say _something_, but he didn't let Marcus respond. As interesting as it might have been, this was better. The blond steadied himself with one hand back against the cool metal of the ship and leaned forward, head cocking to the side so they wouldn't mesh awkwardly, and-

_"Damon Baird to Generator Repair!"_ Echoed suddenly through the loud system and Baird jerked like a guilty teenager. His lips just skimmed the corner of Marcus's as his head whipped to the side to look up the stairs, and the sudden movement jarred the sergeant away. The Sovereign rolled and Marcus, on the opposite side of the hallway, snatched hold of a beam to keep himself upright while Baird grabbed the railing of the stairs. For a moment there was silence, save for the waves slapping against the ship.

"Merry Christmas, Damon," Marcus called finally, and Baird realized the dull twang in his chest was the disappointment of a lost opportunity.

"Yeah," he said slowly, frowning. "Yeah sure, Fenix. You too."

He bound up the stairs, running a hand through his hair and exhaling a breath that was more shaky than he liked. To be merry meant to be happy. Well, he should have been happy that he'd just lost that opportunity, that it had, so to speak, 'jumped ship'.

But he wasn't happy. He was _pissed_.

"Merry fucking Christmas," he spat nastily at no one. Then he went off to do what he did best; fix shit. Because happiness, in this instance, was a matter of opportunity, and he'd just fucking lost it.

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><p>AN: There's another part on the way, guys. Hope you liked!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Hey guys! I really appreciate the reviews and I hope you all have a good new years eve. Life's been keeping me busy and away from writing, but I have a story set on the back burner for after this one… Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I forgot one on the first chapter, but anyone who believes that I own Gears of War is completely wrong. The wonderful series belongs to Epic. Because they are epic. Hahaha. If you still believe I own Gears of War…you mind loaning me three thousand bucks? See, I can transfer it to an offshore account in my country and turn it into a few million…

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><p><em><span>Happy is a Matter of Opportunity<span>_

_Chapter Two_

Any normal person might have expected there to be some awkwardness between the sergeant and himself. Baird, however, knew better, and his knowledge was rewarded with cold, hard, truth. There was no acknowledgement of their near ( or had it been half assed? ) kiss. They went on with life as usual; they did their chores on the ship, Baird running around like a chicken with his head cut off to repair, repair, repair, and Marcus doing…whatever it was that Marcus did that kept him so busy. Whenever there was time for food they'd occasionally meet in the mess hall, and when that happened they'd still sit at the same table. They still bickered. Baird still wanted to hit Anya every time she batted those stupid eyelashes at Marcus and still wanted to strangle Cole every time he gave him that damned sideways look. It was the same. Marcus apparently hadn't even mentioned it to Dom, because if he had, there definitely would have been _something_ from the commando; after all, he'd come to terms with a lot of his depression, so the smart ass quips had become more frequent ( something that Baird simultaneously despised and was grateful for ).

It was better this way, Baird was sure. Of course, he had something new to stew about, but hey, that wasn't something he couldn't handle. He was good at handling shit, so long as people left him the hell alone to do his job. And for the most part on the ship, they did. So he worked on the generators, fixed the back-up to the best of his ability with the materials on hand ( meaning, they'd have perhaps twenty seconds of light ), and went back to trying to find solutions to their problems in life. Figuring out the parts needed for Jack's repair took up his spare time as he designed a better power system, toying with the idea of self defense on top of that, and sleep came as rarely as always, snatched in small spurts between shifts. When New Years hit, everyone was fairly sure that the captain would rather light them ablaze then allow another breach of protocol, but he surprised them all with a tiny, but effective, affair.

"If we get attacked by glowies," he had said, tone perfectly cool, "you will all be expected to defend yourselves and the ship. Any casualties are on _you_."

Baird wasn't sure if he was grateful for the break or irritated by it. On the one hand, it wasn't like he was being _forced_ to attend the party ( well, in any case, he wasn't being forced because he _was _in attendance. He could only imagine that he would have been had he decided to attempt to ditch the special occasion by a rather adamantly festive Cole ). On the other hand, this meant that he had to sit and listen to the drunks, who were now less funny because they were coming up to him and asking him _questions_, like about his New Years Resolutions, rather than just slurring about the uncle/brother/cousin that beat/molested them, or was just outright dead. Ah how he missed the good old days of the slurring.

After the third time someone wandered up and asked him about his resolution, he decided he'd had quite enough and hopped off of the stool he'd commandeered for the corner ( watching with irritable amusement, for a moment, as the drunken gear proceeded to immediately vomit all over the top, therefore ensuring that Baird would never touch that stool again. Ever. ). He cradled his chosen poison of the evening as he wandered away, wary of any snatching, grubby little hands, and had almost made it out of the restructured mess when he spotted Sam, talking to Clayton. It was probably better to say that _she_ spotted _him_, because he'd known where she was all evening and had been doing his level best to _avoid _that area at all costs, and the look she was currently giving him made him want to throw the contents of his glass in her face.

And then the glass itself.

And then maybe a wrench or two.

"Baird!" She called, and there was a tone of demanding to that stupid voice of hers. Normally he liked the accent range around Anvil Gate, but her voice grated on him. Probably because she was always nagging or trying _so hard _to be funny. "Get your ass over here!"

"How about you go and shove your head in a leviathan's mouth!" He responded, quite cheerfully. Sam scowled and Clayton's hands went to his hips, in something of a girlishly exasperated fashion that Baird would have mocked; except he was doing the same thing currently. Damn it all. "Better yet, just go take a swim overboard! That sounds like fun, and a great way to work on those monster thighs!"

Sam did not so much as glance down, though her irritated expression did deepen and he was sure, when she was far out of his sight, she'd check herself in the mirror. Baird was about as sexually inclined to the woman as he was to a filthy stranded male with six pre-determined STDs, but he knew as well as any of them that the female gear had a body on her. One that he hated, but did not want to die, go figure. Probably had something to do with some twisted form of camaraderie; I hate you, you argue incessantly and nag at me, but you're my partner and sorta kinda friend so don't get your ass shot. Whoopie.

After a moment longer of stare off, the female began to weave her way forward through the crowd, which was Baird's signal to turn the opposite direction and meander his way towards some other stool to lounge upon. Or Dom, to protect himself with. Whichever one showed up first.

He caught sight of Dom, off talking with Marcus and Anya ( well, talking to Anya; Marcus was smirking like there'd been a smart ass comment in there, but was doing very little gum flapping ) just as Sam caught _him_. One overly strong hand grasped his forearm to stop him, and it took everything in his power not to smash the glass in her face when he turned around. It was a defense mechanism, but he'd have claimed otherwise if her hand hadn't removed itself from his person.

"I was going to do this in the corner, to avoid embarrassing you," she said, ever so calm, and the blonde's senses sharpened, like perhaps it would be a good idea to make a smart ass comment. Problem was, the only one that leaped to mind would get them stared at and Sam would only give a 'you wish' and continue on with her diabolical scheme of ruining the dregs of respect he somehow still held for her. Bitch. "Seems you haven't been telling me something."

Just like a woman, beating around the bush. It did, however, give him the opening he needed to start to walk away again. "Yeah, uh huh, sure Sherlock. What'd you do," he gave a long pause here, winding around four more people for effect ( and to get closer to his target ), "read my diary?"

"Of sorts," Sam called, and her voice was still far too close to his liking. "Apparently you've been talking in your sleep."

Uh oh.

Well no, uh-oh didn't quite cover it. Sam's statement had just jumped from casual annoyance to full on oh fucking shit, this needed some elbow grease, because if she had any ideas, she would enact them, like some goddamn psychologist or something. Unfortunately, his destination had been reached, and he couldn't say much because Anya was locking him in her sights and giving that stupid smile, the one that was mostly plastered on, and reaching out to grab his hand.

"Happy New Year, Damon," she said.

Briefly he wondered what it was about the female members of COG in his life that made him hate their voices so much; he'd hated Stroud's since she'd first echoed through his ear, back when Sera hadn't been _complete _shit. Just _mostly_ shit. Instead of grabbing her hand, however, he gave a short, "Yeah, yeah, you too," and turned back to Sam, who was giving him _the look_. The _I know something about you that you don't want me to know, and I'm going to make your life hell with it because it'll be good for you in the long run, I'm sure of it_, look. There really needed to be a shorter name for that look. Maybe it would just be referred to as the 'meddling bitch' look.

Because the blond genius knew exactly what she was talking about when she mentioned him talking in his sleep. Baird rarely did any of the aforementioned activity, so when he did, sometimes it ended up being captured naps in Ravens, or lounging on something he was repairing and planned on finishing. There was plenty of opportunity for someone to hear him. And while he didn't know what he'd said, he could guess, because he was a fucking genius and knew exactly what ( or rather, whom ) he'd been dreaming about.

Someone he'd just walked right towards.

"I will end you while you sleep," he said, ignoring the snort that Dom gave beside him.

"I'm sure you will, Baird," Sam replied, then turned a smile to the commando. "Hello. Would you mind coming with me, Dom, Anya?"

The lieutenant's golden gaze flickered around the room in one broad sweep, finding the clock on the wall. "Well," she said, voice a little hum, "I suppose I can. It's nearly midnight, though."

Baird did not miss the way her gaze flickered to Marcus as she said that. His fingers convulsed into a fist, but he kept his expression perfectly neutral, all ready working up an excuse to follow along after them or escape to somewhere else. Somewhere more crowded than this corner, because it was going to look mighty barren with two grown men standing there being awkward.

Sam seemed to anticipate this. "No worries, just need you both to come with me for a second, Clayton's got something to say. It'll give you that chance to talk to Marcus too, aye Baird?" She smiled, ever so sweetly, a look that the blond was quick to return.

"Aww, look at that. Sam's got Alzheimer's all ready! You're off your rocker, old lady." Satisfied enough with his excuse, he scanned the crowd, searching for someone, anyone, to talk to. He'd remember their names later. "Now, if you'll pardon me-"

"Actually, that's a good idea. I need to talk to the corporal for a minute."

Hell. Hell and fire and brimstone and whatever other holy symbols could be potentially bad and or offensive. Green eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded Marcus, who looked back quite impassively. The slew of curses that wanted to burst from the blonde's lips at the wash of heat in his abdomen was swallowed only because he was pretty sure calling the sergeant such a colorful array, for no apparent reason, was a surefire way to give himself away.

"Don't you think it can wait until later, _sarge_?" He queried. "I mean, we aren't even on _duty_."

"No." Marcus responded.

Ever to the point. God damnit, and here Baird had been hoping for an easy way out rather than just being the asshole. If he ran off now, the look Dom was giving him might evolve into the 'Cole look', because even if they argued, Baird usually stayed to listen to Marcus. Hell, sometimes they even did things together outside of bickering- drinking, talking about the past, what they'd had for career goals…only a little, but sometimes. So he couldn't run. Not without being suspicious, anyway, and Sam knew that. She knew it very well, and he could _tell_, because she was giving him that smile as she wandered off with Dom and Anya, chattering about some mundane thing or another that she'd no doubt made up on the spot. It amazed him that she'd outwitted him; he was the genius and she was Sam, the idiot who could maybe fire a shot sometimes and cared way too much about their little "family". He was off his damn a-game, apparently.

And now he was stuck. With Marcus. Great.

"So, what grand issue did you need me to attend to, Fenix?" The blond sighed, turning to face the impending awkwardness. "Keep in mind, I'm not a doctor. If you're confused as to why the blond lieutenant doesn't give you a stiffie, or some burning sensation, you'll probably just want to cut it off. I mean, those _are_ the basic functions in life, and if Anya catches you visiting the med-bay and getting _that_ checked out-"

"Baird," Marcus cut him off, blue eyes rolling towards the ceiling. "Shut up."

The panic rat was beginning to run around in Baird's system though because he knew damn well why Marcus had wanted him to stay. He wanted to talk about the _thing_, the _thing_ they were ignoring, and the ridiculous part of it was, the Sergeant didn't talk about _feelings_ unless it was explosive rage and Baird avoided it like the plague. This was something for Sam and Dom to talk about, or Anya to moon over when she was drunk, or something. What they needed to do was bury whatever-they'd-almost-done and forget about it, because it was obvious that it was going nowhere, not with the world like it was, not with what had happened with Anya and Marcus before. Even if they had as much chemistry as a wet noodle had solidarity, they had a sexual history; that had to count for something, right? And now, Baird couldn't even say that he had the more important experience, the experience of watching Marcus's back and patching his wounds in the field, because she did that too. Not that he'd ever say that openly, but he was going into a panic spiral and Damon Baird did _not_ go into panic spirals well. It usually came out ugly.

"No," Baird spat, and the little voice in the back of his head that analyzed himself calmly reported to the rest of his body that they were going into a denial fueled bitch fit now, which resulted in him taking a step forward, jabbing an index finger violently into the sergeant's chest, "_you_ shut up. You know what? Every goddamn time you tell me to shut up about some topic or another, something goes horribly wrong. Something breaks down, you get trapped underground, you're flying in a helicopter that _almost fucking explodes from a fucking lambent berserker_." He was puffed up like a furious little bird, he was completely aware of that, but he enjoyed the fact that his voice maintained that acidic calm that he held so dear, it held none of the panic that was boiling beneath his skin. "So don't _give _me orders that start with _shut up_, Fenix."

There was one tiny little problem with Baird's pissed off rant. Marcus knew Baird; his constant irritation with the cocky quips had softened somewhat, to the point where they could banter, but that did not imply that he would sit and take any form of abuse. Ever. The cool luminous blues had narrowed into something like anger, and Baird could feel the almost growl building in the chest he was so haphazardly poking even before the words tumbled out of the sergeant's mouth.

"If you want to go on tangents about all the times somebody's fucked up, Baird," Marcus responded nastily, "then don't go off on me." The simmering rage behind his words reminded Baird, quite suddenly, who had given the idea to sink Jacinto, and the panic froze in place like a guilty knot in his chest. "You will listen to your fucking commanding officer, or I-"

Someone in the crowd shouted suddenly from the top of a table, waving a drink tipsily around. "Hey everyone, ten seconds til midnight!"

Baird glanced at the drink still clutched in his hand and was dully surprised that the glass hadn't been crushed. Most of it had spilled out during his rage fit, but there was still some left. He downed it in one go, the panic rat warring with his inherent 'fuck it' nature while he tried to avoid looking at the Sergeant, who was caught in his own frosty state of anger.

A drunken sort of countdown was started by the gear standing on the table. "Ten! Nine! Eight…"

Almost a week ago, Baird had decided fuck it. He had gone for it just to get his damned kiss, because that would be all he was getting. Not that the blond was bad to look at; he knew damn well he was attractive. But Marcus had Anya and sometimes Marcus hated him, just like sometimes he hated Marcus. It was how they worked. Dimly he realized that that's how all people worked, but there was a key difference here. Baird hated people- Baird was, in fact, _afraid_ of people a lot of the time. Afraid to care, because when he cared they either died or used him.

"Marcus," he sighed, and even to himself he sounded tired, resigned to some fate he wasn't sure about. "All right, fuck," he exhaled, steeling himself. "I'd rather fucking not think about what happened on Christmas Eve, all right?"

The Sergeant could have laughed at him, or asked him why, but he didn't. Instead he stood, perfectly silent, and looked at the blond. Just looked at him with an unnerving quiet that seemed to spread through him, washing the anger from his face, relaxing his shoulders. Baird opened his mouth to snap at him, say _something_, but Anya's voice cut him off as the drunken crowd warbled "Happy New Year!" behind them.

"Marcus!" She called, breathless. Small fingertips brushed over Baird's bicep as she slipped around him, planting herself firmly between the sergeant and corporal. The wall that had always been there, brought into a physical reality. "It's new years," she said, sounding like a mixture between coy and shy that Baird could never hit.

"Yeah," Marcus said distantly. He was looking over her, however. Baird could feel blue eyes resting on him, something that intrigued him and made him look right back. "Happy New Years, Anya," he said, ever so coolly.

The flicker of surprise that washed over Anya's features wasn't all that large. It was as if this were a matter she'd resolved herself to long ago, but had been hoping against. Still, she offered the soft, pasted on smile and said, "Yeah, Marcus," as he stepped around her. Gold eyes flickered to Baird and she quirked something that might actually have looked a little genuine, if he focused on it. "You too."

This was his shot. His one chance, the second he could reach out and take. Baird realized this with a thawing heat in his chest, green eyes narrowed in calculation. He thought about finding a table to set his glass on, but none were convenient and judging by the sound of glass breaking, he wasn't the only one with more important matters, so he half dropped the cup to the ground. It didn't break, simply began to roll from view, but the blond wasn't paying attention to that.

He was paying attention to the fact that Marcus didn't look as wary as he felt, because Marcus never looked as wary as he felt, which was one of the reasons Baird was attracted to him ( he could admit that to himself; if someone tried to make him say it out loud, it was the lancer for him ). He was paying attention to the fact that one big hand was resting on the back of his neck, as if to keep him from getting away this time, even though it was Baird that was taking that last step forward, so there was no way in fucking hell this wasn't happening now.

"Happy New Year, Marcus," he snorted, his tone mockingly sweet.

Marcus's lips quirked in a wry smirk. "Shut up, Baird."

Blond brows arched. "Why don't you make me?"

Someone may or may not have said 'you'd be doing us all a favor', but Baird sort of tune them out when Marcus's mouth finally crushed against his own, and it was simultaneously different and the same from kissing a female. Marcus was not soft; his lips were chapped from the harsh weather, his jaw was strong, and the roughness of his stubble scraped against Baird's own. He was not hesitant or shy, but firm in his motivations, and if Baird weren't who he was he could have easily allowed the other man to control the kiss, melted into the strength of the Sergeant who he'd come to respect and trust more than anyone. As it were, he couldn't do that, wouldn't do that, because their life was uncertain and damn it all if he was half assing this.

Baird's own hands didn't know what to do for a moment before finding themselves firmly on the sergeant's waist, both for leverage and someplace to settle, as he pushed forward, chest to chest. His stomach fluttered damningly at the other male's chuckle, then gave a much more persistent squirm as Marcus's tongue swiped across his lips, and he was maybe-possibly-slightly more aggressive as he acquiesced, twisting and slipping across the sergeant's own boundaries to explore just as headily, breathing momentarily forgotten at the whiskey-male taste that was the ex-convict.

And then, Cole's "WHOO!" ruined everything. _Everything_.

Baird jerked, nearly biting off his own tongue ( not to mention Marcus's ) at the sudden noise so dangerously close to his person, and glared at the man he sometimes referred to as his best friend. Who was grinning like he'd won the lottery.

"I knew it, baby!" Cole said cheerfully. "Me and Santiago had a bet runnin on when this would happen and I _won_. I better collect."

The blond half expected Marcus to pull away and be done with him; the other half knew better, because that one hand was flexing on the back of his neck, like he was ready to kiss him again, despite the fact that there was definitely blood in the genius's mouth. "Good for you Gus," Marcus said, and the tone of his voice made Cole's smile turn faintly timid and Baird's smirk bloom. "Now could you kindly go the fuck away?"

"Nah, Cole, you stay here," Baird said. Marcus gave him a look that was quite indiscernible, even from as close as they were, but the blond quaintly ignored it. "I think I need to have a talk with the sergeant somewhere else. Where there are fewer drunk people."

A smirk crept its way back onto the former thrashball star's features. "Yeah, sure Damon. Happy New Year."

Baird _really_ didn't want to untangle himself, the itching addiction starting to spread through his limbs, making them heavy and uncooperative, but his disinterest with the populace in general forced him to duck out of Marcus's grip. He was glad when the sergeant got the hint and followed him through the crowd. He'd ask Fenix a lot of things at this point in time, but if he'd had to explain his intentions he'd have lost a lot of respect for the man.

"You realize everybody's going to know we're gone in the next twenty seconds," Marcus said. He didn't sound particularly bothered by the idea. Actually, he sounded sort of _amused_.

"Yeah, well, they can fuck off," Baird said. And he meant it. He didn't want to deal with the bullshit, but like hell he was going to tiptoe around. Even if it was just this once. It had to be just this once, the small voice reminded him, but the thought made his chest tighten, so he decided not to think about it too much, because his itch- his addiction, he realized with no small amount of horror- demanded he do something. Anything. "Besides," he chuckled, his expression sly as he looked back to the sergeant, "I get a happy ending out of this, so I had to take the opportunity."

They'd made it down to Baird's quarters. The blond rapped on the doorway.

"Opportunity knocks," he quipped.

Any dread that had begun to flood him vanished quite suddenly beneath the tide of desire as Marcus shut the door ( which took rather longer than the blond would have liked ) and pressed him suddenly to the wall. Rather like how they'd been not so long ago, only now he was smirking and Baird knew exactly where this was going. And was fine with that. More than fine. Fucking _ecstatic_.

"Opportunity knocks," Marcus chuckled, and kissed him.

-The End-

* * *

><p>I know, it's a little cheesy for our Gears boys, but…holidays, right? I always sort of imagine their first time making out being bloody and angry, but, again, holidays. And to think this all started from the gears holiday armor and it mentioning Baird's Christmas sweaters…ahaha. I tried to keep any Anya and Sam bashing to a minimum while keeping it in something like Baird's voice, as I despise them both with a passion, though I'm not sure how successful I was.<p>

Anyway. I hope you all enjoyed it. Happy New Years!


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